Fate Orchid Labyrinth
by RamblingChantrix
Summary: (AU, OC) A new Holy Grail War is starting in downtown Manhattan. Charismatic professor Jerome Cormic tricks his seven proteges into summoning Servants, and then everything goes straight to hell. CONTENT WARNING - No rapists raping, implied or otherwise, but there's considerable mind control magecraft and that makes for some squicky moments.
1. 01 - A Seed, to bear Death

Professor Jerome Cormic looked down over Greene Street, watching the steady pedestrian traffic. In his right hand, his cellphone: an unsent text, "meet me in my office at 4 p.m." His thumb hovered by the send button, not a millimeter closer or further than it had been for half an hour. Jerome was perfectly still, but he trembled inside. Today was going to be his best day.

He had prepared everything. The items lay on the white tablecloth draped over his usually messy desk. The diagrams were drawn in chalk and pig's blood all over his floor and walls. He knew his script by heart. And then there was the other thing he'd prepared, the most important of all: the students. They would come at four, even if he sent the text now, at 2:47; they would come willingly, enthusiastically, to participate in the greatest manaetic experiment the East Coast had ever seen. They would come joking about class, or some self-important professor. They would come arm in arm or hand in hand, best friends, lovers, giddy thralls to Jerry's arts. They would come because he owned them, heart, mind, and body. They weren't his first batch: they were his last. They were perfect.

Lined up before Jerry on the windowsill were their orchids, seven vigorous specimens, none more or less beautiful than the others. The plants practically hummed with mana. He could hear their song without looking at them. Orchids had served as the foci of every one of his experiments, and their constant Croon was his favorite background noise. No more orchids, he realized, glancing down at his phone. This is the last crop.

2:48.

He pressed Send and sat down behind his desk. He had come so far, put in so much work, and suddenly he wondered what he would do tomorrow. The ritual would be complete, the experiment a sure success. He would be free—contractually free, truly free—the world his oyster. He wouldn't need a job. He could quit the English Department and just go somewhere. Read, write, follow his original passions. He would live out his final decades blessed, not hashtag blessed, blessed in the truest sense of the word. He was trading his orchids in for the Holy Grail.

Would life become boring, he wondered, when he no longer had to use charm and subtle arts to dominate the minds of twenty-year-old lit undergrads? A shuffling existentialism crept ever closer.

No.

He centered himself, floating on his back in the orchidsong, eyes closed to everything but the pool of mana inside him. It rippled mildly, stirred by only the slightest of concerns. What if the experiment fails? So much rode on this. He wouldn't get another chance, he'd been assured. The Grail wouldn't wait, and if he didn't seize it the Church would. Without the Grail he was useless to his sponsors, and while they hadn't put it so plainly, he was fairly sure they would kill him the moment he ceased to be anything but a liability to them.

Jerry didn't push these thoughts away. He allowed them to breathe on the surface of his mana. He gave them space, time, attention. It's okay. It's okay to worry. But it's also okay not to worry, he reminded himself. It's okay to have some confidence. The kids were perfect. The diagrams were immaculate. The items were of guaranteed quality and authenticity—if something went wrong on that front, his sponsors could only blame themselves. Jerry exhaled deeply as the surface of his mana slowly stilled, becoming a mirror pond reflecting his soul. He peered into it and the minotaur peered back. They smiled at each other, and for a moment Jerry remembered that he was a complete lunatic. Hallucination after hallucination slowly built themselves into a cohesive narrative of a gifted man with a quest. Starting in his own early twenties he had reconciled break after break with common knowledge about the nature of an ever decaying real world, eventually developing his own hypotheses about the nature of magic. Students in his dozens of failed experiments had challenged him on his premises. One of them had even broken into his mind and confronted the minotaur. After his arrest he learned that despite being a lunatic, he wasn't all wrong. His captors had done their best to avoid teaching him, but he had still picked up on a few things here and there. What he had known as the Six Arts of Alters were just one subdivision of magecraft. Magi existed, in secret, with their own organizations and societies. He and the couple accidental wizards he'd encountered in his experiments were far from the only ones keeping ancient arts alive. This knowledge alone had made his imprisonment bearable. In his cell deep beneath the British Museum he had reframed his theses. Each of his experiments since his escape eclipsed the previous. His understanding of magic deepened daily, until today. Jerry stood abruptly but without head rush. He felt incredible.

His phone still in his hand, he speed-dialed Hubert without looking. He gazed at his desk as he brought the phone to his ear.

"How's it looking, Jerry?"

"They'll be here in an hour. I've prepared everything, and I know all the chants by heart. We'll have the Grail tonight."

"Very good. You should be proud of yourself, Jerry."

"I couldn't have done it without your assistance. You and yours have been a delight." Jerry winced slightly at his own politeness. He was grateful for his freedom, and for his chance at the Grail, but Hubert was a Nazi, and Jerry always felt weird about that.

"Thank you," said Hubert. "We do strive for greatness. Now listen, Jerry—do you think you have time to do one more thing for us? It's not crucial to the success of the ritual, but I think it will improve our odds."

"Fuck," said Jerry, then, "shit, sorry. I mean, yes, of course, but Hubert, I don't know about these curveballs! Why didn't we plan for this?"

"Sorry, Jerry, the blame's all on us for this one. Again, it's not crucial, but hey it's coming down from above you know? A new suggestion from the order. A new order, hah. Listen, it's not an order, but again: can you do a thing for us?"

"What is it?"

"Write down the chants on paper, preferably in red ink—teachers have that, right?—one chant per page, and put the pages next to the appropriate relic. Call me back when that's done."

Jerry frowned. "Wasn't I going to tell them the chants?"

"Waters is worried you might trigger the ritual prematurely if you do that. Listen, it's just a precaution, but can you do this?"

"Yeah, yes, of course. I'll call you right back."

Jerry hung up, pulled seven pieces of paper out of his printer's tray, and began writing down the chants. They were each twelve lines long, and within ten minutes he had arranged the pages on the desk as instructed.

"Hubert?"

"Cheers Jerry! Is it done?"

"Yes. It's all written out, and the kids should be here soon."

"Great. You've been a great asset, Jerry. Our buddies in the Clock Tower did a good job. I want you to know this, Jerry. I want you to understand. You are a great man. You have accomplished a lot, and you're about to top it all."

"Thanks, Hubert."

"Have you thought about what you're going to ask of the Grail?"

"Of course," Jerry laughed.

"Well, what is it?"

"I don't have to keep it secret for it to come true?"

Hubert laughed in turn. "No, Jerry, this isn't a birthday candle. It's the Holy Grail! Come on, we didn't get this far on superstition alone. We're talking miracles. What's yours?"

Jerry hesitated a moment, suddenly embarrassed. "I want to write the Great American Novel, Hubert."

"Hey, that's nice." Hubert's voice was warm, comforting. Jerry didn't like being comforted by Nazis. "Listen, it's going to happen, okay? The ritual's at four, it might take half an hour? And then as we say in the order, blip bammo, Grail, wish, miracle, you're _the_ author."

"Thanks, Hubert."

"There's just one more thing we need to do. One more curveball, for me, not you." Hubert chuckled. "You don't need to do anything else, Jerry. It's all on me. Before the Grail can really kick things into gear it needs one more big burst of mana."

"Okaay," said Jerry. "But you've got it covered?"

"Yeah. I know just the thing. Here, look out your window." Jerry looked down at the street, trying to find something noteworthy in the flow of walkers. "No, no, straight across. See me?" Jerry looked up and saw Hubert standing on the roof of the Waverly Building, phone to ear in one hand, waving with the other. His blonde Hitler Youth hairdo flapped lazily in the late November breeze. Jerry waved back, slowly, befuddled. Hubert stopped waving and pointed straight at Jerry. "I think a minotaur should do the trick."

# # #

Onson Sweemey was first. 3:58. Jerry's office door was closed, as usual. (It keeps the mana in, he'd say.) Just as he was about to knock on the door, he heard the others arrive.

"Hey Sonion!" called Jass Bonzalez. Onson smiled at this nickname. It rhymed with Funyun, a quirky American thing.

"Wazzup Jass?"

Jass and Bobsom Dugnutt arrived hand in hand, readers tucked under opposite armpits. Rey McSriff, Anatoli Dustice, Raul Chamgerlain, and Karli Dandleton showed up right at four, the stragglers of the group, always cutting it close.

When Onson had first joined the group, the other six had seemed so similar to him: all American. Of course, they didn't see it that way, and neither did America. With time Onson had figured out that Jass being Latina meant something; that Raul's Algerian roots meant something. These Americans shared a dialect, mannerisms, cultural touchstones, but they weren't, as Onson had originally assumed, a homogeneous gang. He'd made his share of faux-pas, mostly responded to with generosity for the sweet, clueless foreigner, but he had made an effort to learn. Three months into his semester abroad, he was still learning, and it was much easier with these peers than with most of his classmates. Jerry's students were always the friendliest, the brightest.

"Today's the day!" Raul beamed.

"Jerry's going to be so happy," said Karli. "I hope it's a smashing success."

"How could it not be?"

"Well, we could dawdle out here and ruin the timing." Rey laughed as she spoke, and Raul grabbed the doorknob.

The seven students looked at each other, exchanging gazes and smiles. Then in unison they nodded, and Raul opened the door.

Onson was the last to enter the room. His fellows had fanned out along either side of the door, not daring to step forward. The floor was covered in red and white diagrams, geometric shapes, strange glyphs. Jerry's desk was draped in a white tablecloth. Upon that rested seven sheets of paper, each next to a small object: a gilded string, an arrowhead, a dagger, a glass slipper, a pottery fragment, a wilted flower, and a nail. Splashed across the northeast-facing window in messy, red letters, were the words: "Line up by orchid, face your relic, speak the words."

Jerry was nowhere in sight.

"Guys?" Onson looked back to his fellows. They were already at Jerry's desk, standing in order: Jass, Bobsom, Anatoli, Rey, Raul, Karli. Between Raul and Karli was a gap. The wilted flower was Onson's. "Guys, isn't this a bit much?"

Jass looked back at him. "Maybe Jerry can't be in the room for the ritual. We should continue without him."

"I think these diagrams are drawn in blood," said Onson.

"Use the Grail to clean it up, if you care." Raul laughed, then went back to studying the page in his hands.

Onson looked from left to right, Jass to Karli. Was he the only one who had doubts about the scene they were encountering? Was it a Swedish thing, this reluctance? The Americans were gung-ho. Today was the big day, the culmination of decades of research for Jerry. A chance to do something truly extraordinary. They were going to attain the Holy Grail of legend, vessel of miracles. Onson had barely slept the night before, had been a bit weak in the knees climbing up to Jerry's office. We're all excited, he thought. But Jerry is supposed to be here.

"I feel really weird about this."

"Come onnn, Sonion," pleaded Jass, turning to pout at him. "Come look your poem over. I think we're supposed to all do this together. Don't ruin this for Jerry."

Onson stared at Jass for a good twenty seconds before he managed to make a decision. "Fuck it. Let's get that Grail. For Jerry!"

"For Jerry!" the other students cheered.

Onson took his place between Raul and Karli. He looked down at the wilted flower, tiny against the white tablecloth. In front of it was the sheet of paper, with twelve lines written in red ink.

_A Seed, to bear Death _  
_Antidote of the 9 Quadrants _  
_A heart, to pump poison throughout _  
_Your garden gate crumbles _  
_I hereby propose _  
_Your Will mine, and I your Sword _  
_Answer if you abide the Grail's Summons and Laws _  
_I hereby swear _  
_I shall define Good _  
_I shall unmake Evil _  
_From the Tree of Thal, Altered by nothing, _  
_Step forth, Ascendant!_

"Shall we do this?" asked Bobsom. He waved his page eagerly.

"I don't understand mine," said Onson.

"What's there to understand?" asked Karli. She gazed at the nail on desk, her paper crumpled and discarded. "Jerry prepared this. We just say the words."

"I think I understand mine," said Bobsom. "This is a summoning spell. I bet my chant will make a little green dude show up."

"A little green dude?" giggled Jass. "What is this, King's Cup?"

Anatoli had remained silent, and he now looked over at Onson. "I wouldn't say I'm like, 100% on this to be honest. What if something happens to us? To the department? What if something already happened to Jerry?"

"What could happen?" asked Raul. "This is Jerry we're talking about."

"Come on," said Anatoli. "You read books. This isn't an uncommon theme. We mess with some higher power, maybe there's a reward, maybe there's a price. I'm with Onson."

"No," said Onson. "Let's fucking do this." He knew Americans loved how it sounded when he said "fucking," and it embarrassed him a little, but he needed to pump himself up. "It's time sensitive and we're almost five minutes behind schedule. We all signed up for this, right? Our favorite professor is a loony wizard and we love him. I'm starting in three."

"Two," said everyone in unison, except Anatoli, whose expression darkened.

After a meaningful look around the room, he joined in for "one."

Onson read his chant aloud. Karli recited hers, as did Jass and Raul. Bobsom, Anatoli, and Rey read from the page, except Rey who clearly went off script: she added a thirteenth line, "I've been waiting for you to take me away." Before Onson could give that addition too much thought, the diagrams on the floor and walls began glowing. The message written on the window seemed to float off the glass, swirling into a red cloud in the center of the room. Then it parsed itself into seven smaller eddies, and flew in seven directions, landing on the back of the right hand of each student. Onson looked down and saw a red crest on his hand, three flowers arranged to make a skull shape.

As soon as he had registered this, near-blinding light and a fierce wind gripped the closed room, blurring lines, mangling the curtains, and smashing the potted orchids to the floor. Onson was steady, puzzling at this powerful force that did not even try to move him. His fellows remained on their feet as well.

Then a massive thud shook the floor and the light receded.

In the middle of various circles drawn on the floor were seven strangers, each bathed in a faint blue light. A slight, tunicked man with a jeweled crown in his green hair stood near Jass, a shepherd's crook in one hand. Nearest Bobsom, a stout white man dressed in green stood with a jaunty feather in his hat. A red-haired, pale skinned woman dressed like Johnny Depp in Pirates of the Caribbean stood by Anatoli. A tall figure in an immaculate white suit stood by Rey's elbow, all features beside dress and height indiscernible. At Raul's feet, a dirty man in rags crouched like a dog. A woman with dark green skin and purple hair squatted next to Onson, clad in ancient Indian garb. On Karli's other side stood—Jesus? Swarthy, bearded, clad in his iconic white robe and red sash.

Onson was still busy taking in the scene when the seven newcomers spoke in unison.

"Your summons have been answered. I am—"

The seven stopped, glancing around the room, at the students, the relics, each other.

The green-skinned woman stood straight in a flash and locked eyes with Onson.

"Are you my master?"

Onson Sweemey could have said no. At least, he thought it was an option. This was a yes or no question. These things weren't always clear. English was barely a second language to him, but he hadn't been in America long, and he got it wrong sometimes. Still, he was sure there was no cultural barrier here. The question was simple. Yes or no. He could say yes—he could say no. He had no other option. The tone of the question was clear as his options: he had to decide fast. There was no time for hesitation. He didn't have much to go on, either. But Jerry hadn't mentioned summoning green people or Jesus. Onson knew in that instant that this experiment had gone off the rails.

Something horrible had happened to Jerry, and something horrible could happen to him.

He needed protection.

"Yes," he said simply, and the woman nodded. Around the room, Onson heard a chorus of yesses.

Then in a flurry, the seven new arrivals were pulling their new "masters" aside, pushing them into corners, blocking them from each other with their bodies. All seven, except Onson's green woman, who had vanished.

He stood in the center of the room, at a loss. The pirate was waving a boarding axe, the dirty man a stick; Jesus was chanting something under his breath, and the guy in green, now obviously some kind of reject Robin Hood, was knocking an arrow to a bow.

"Guys?" asked Onson, his voice cracking as fear gripped him.

And then Bobsom gargled and fell over, dead eyes open, purple bile bubbling from his mouth.

Onson stared in a daze at Bobsom's body as the walls of the office blew to pieces and his friends were whisked away in the arms of the things they'd summoned. As quickly as the ritual had started it was over. Jerry's office looked like it had been bombed. Bobsom lay rigid among the rubble. The hand that had held Jass's fifteen minutes earlier had frozen around his own neck. The nails were already flaking away from his darkening mauve skin. Panicked shouts rang down the hall, and sirens wailed a couple blocks away. Onson couldn't tear his eyes away from his friend, but his vision was weird, part blurry, part jelly, jittery. He was sure he was having a stroke.

"My name is Visha Kanya, Living Death, Servant of the Assassin class," said the green woman, rematerializing in front of Onson. "I will win the Grail for you, but I cannot keep you safe. We will find you a hiding spot, to emerge from when the war is over. Come, before our enemies return."

Onson's vision was clearing up slowly, but he needed to puke. He put a hand out to support himself on Assassin's shoulder, but she backed away and he fell face first into the growing puddle of his vomit.

"Don't touch me, Master."

These were the last words Onson heard before the room spun and his vision departed again, hiding behind the heavy shroud of unconsciousness.


	2. In the Labyrinth :: A

In the Labyrinth

A

November 20

Sunlight filtered through Jerry's half-closed shades, casting a soft light on the orchids. Jerry's proteges sat scattered about the room. Rey was helping Onson through some Gary Snyder. Karli was drawing in a sketchbook, hunched over, earbuds in, face twisted in concentration as she worked. Anatoli held his Ruth Ozeki open with one hand, pinkie saving his place, as he peered over her shoulder, mouth open in a faint expression of wonder. Jass sat with her back to the desk, to Jerry, a chair on either side of her. She was looking down, contentment in her face. To her right, Bobsom was curled up on his side. He dozed with his face in her lap, drooling slightly. Raul's head leaned on her left shoulder.

A lull.

The students sat on brittle plastic folding chairs that afforded little in the way of comfort. They were crammed in the small room of a newer professor, some of their bodies contorted into weird positions. The room was cold, breezy. But they were cozy, warm and soft in each other's presence.

Jerry, sitting at his desk, hummed quietly, as he always did, in a low and almost imperceptible register. The orchids, lined up on the windowsill, shone faintly.

Raul stirred, sat up, stretched.

Jass's shoulder was cold, and the moment was over.

Anatoli stood and put his book in his backpack. Karli turned the page in her sketchbook, yawned, and stashed it. Rey clapped Onson on the back, then kissed him on the cheek. Jass scooped Bobsom's head into her hands, leaned over, and placed her lips on his. He responded with tongue, and the others watched. There was a brief swell in the room: Onson and Rey holding hands, Karli brushing something off her chest, Raul wrapping an arm around Anatoli's shoulders and rubbing his smooth cheek against the other boy's ear.

After the kiss, Bobsom rose slowly, sleepily.

It was time to go to class.


	3. 02 - The Death of Shame

Jass lay despondent in the entryway to her tiny studio apartment.

The lithe, green-haired man who called her Master and could disappear and reappear at will sat crosslegged by her head. He fiddled idly with what looked like a small harp. Occasionally a string of notes improved her mood, but she hated herself for allowing her spirits to lift at all. She had run out of tears long before stumbling home and now she just felt dried out, a husk.

Bobsom was dead.

What the fuck? An hour earlier they'd been making out in the stairwell outside Jerry's office. Young, and in love. What the fuck.

"I would like to help you, Master." His voice was rich and sweet. "I know all the songs of Bethlehem, if any might ease your heart."

Jass didn't respond.

"I can bring you food and water."

_Go away._

"Do not forget that you are my Master."

Would this asshole not stop offering to help? Jass steeled herself, managed to utter: "Leave me alone."

"I'm afraid I cannot do that," replied the man, voice suddenly stern. Jass blinked. "You are my Master, which means I need you to win the Grail. I can't leave you like this. We must discuss our respective skills and strategy. We must fortify your atelier. The others may come for you as things stand now. I sense no protective enchantments at this time."

"Protective enchantments?" she managed.

"Yes. As a magus, you must defend yourself better. I can protect you from enemies of whom we are aware, but even I can't stop a long range magical assault, nor could I reliably stop Assassin from entering these premises as things stand."

Jass propped herself up on her elbows and looked into the man's piercing green eyes.

"Do you not understand that you are in _danger_, Master?"

Sure she did. The world was an overwhelmingly dangerous place. Her abuela had made that abundantly clear following her dad's disappearance in the sixth grade. Now Anatoli's words rang in her head, a grim carillon. "We mess with some higher power, maybe there's a reward, maybe there's a price." Yet she had been the one who convinced Onson to play along. If she had slowed her roll just a smidgeon—

"Master, it is not proper, but I am now considering methods of forcing you to listen to me. There is a time for patience and consideration, but this is a time for action."

Jass flopped back onto her side, arms extended in front of her. Three red sheep seemed to have been magically tattooed onto the back of her right hand. If only that hand hadn't held the summoning script.

"Can we go back?"

"How do you mean?"

"Can we undo the ritual."

"Master, do you not seek the Grail?"

"I wanted to make my professor happy. He wanted the Grail." Jass shivered as she tried to process her guilt.

"Is this professor one of the Masters?"

"No," she said, intuiting that the other Masters were her friends. Jerry's other prize students. "If what I am is a Master, and there's seven of us—"

"Six."

"Don't fucking remind me," she cried, and to her surprise she managed to burst into tears. "What—" she caught her breath— "what, what happened to him?" Blubbering she rolled over and looked back to her Servant. "What happened to Bobsom?"

"It is exceedingly likely that Assassin killed him. We did not stay long, as you know, but poison is probable. Few Servants employ such methods."

"Assassin?"

"The woman with green skin. Her Master is the fair-haired boy."

Onson.

Sweet Onson!

The skeptical one! Had it been a ploy? Was he trolling, even as he cast the spell that killed Bobsom? Her imagination filled in the gaps and slowly her guilt and sorrow were replaced with a roasting rage. Jass sprang to life, jumping to her feet and ransacking her kitchen.

"What are you looking for?"

"Knives," she answered, opening and slamming drawers. "I am going to kill that motherfucker."

"Don't bother," said the man with the miniature harp. "When you are ready to join battle, you shall need no blade but the Lord's." He stood and waved his instrument. It disappeared in a shower of golden sparks. "We can kill Assassin's Master with this, if it pleases you." His left hand disappeared behind his back, then reemerged holding a giant sickle sword, easily over four feet long, ridiculously large in the man's hand. Yet he held it like it weighed nothing.

"What is that thing?" asked Jass.

"The sword of Goliath the Philistine," replied the man. "As you are now ready to talk, perhaps it is time for a proper introduction. I am David son of Nitzevet and Jesse, King of Israel, Servant of the Saber Class. I am confident that in a straightforward confrontation, I can easily defeat any other Servant in this Holy Grail War. Now, tell me about yourself. What kind of magecraft do you use?" He waved his hand, and the giant sword was gone.

Jass just looked at him with her mouth open.

"You seem surprised, for a Master in this war."

"I... I suppose I am," she said slowly. "_The_ David?"

"Call me Saber. Our enemies must not learn my name. Tell me: what do you wish to know?"

Jass sighed and closed the knife drawer. She rubbed her temples and poured herself a glass of water. There was no going back. If this man was offering her information, she should take it.

"I guess everything," she said.

"That could take a while," said Saber. "Can you not put some defenses in place before we get into it?"

"I'm not a magus or whatever!"

For the first time, Saber seemed taken aback.

"I suppose that is possible," he said, "though unexpected and unfortunate. How did you come to summon me?"

"Again, this professor wanted it. We just followed his instructions."

"Do you mean to tell me that _none_ of the Masters are magi? And you all know each other?"

"We are close friends." A practiced line, a summary of something more complicated. Then she thought of Onson's boyish face, his hesitation. Bobsom turning purple on the floor. "Were."

Saber frowned, then his face lightened.

"I assume you do not want your close friends dead."

"Not all of them."

"Okay. That is honorable. We will focus on defeating Servants. If you and your friends coordinate, you can have them order their Servants to attack me head-on. I shall defeat them all and we will attain the Grail. No victory could be easier."

"Why can't we just share the Grail?" asked Jass. "Why is there a war?"

Saber shook his head sadly.

"The Grail does not work until no more than one Servant remains. We must defeat the other six and take it for ourselves. Take heart, Master: if you truly wish it, the Grail can restore your love."

Jass didn't say anything. If she could make one wish on the Holy Grail, will one miracle into existence, would it even be to revive one dead human? Her heart yelled at her as she considered the possibility that she wouldn't use her wish to save Bobsom. There were so many problems in the world. Hunger, thirst, imperialist war. The idea of a miracle seemed incomprehensibly grand. Could she not save millions? Billions?

She was still processing, but she could sense Saber's impatience, so she took action. Walking over to the edge of the kitchen counter, she reached behind the microwave, pulled out a thin black cable, and plugged in her cellphone.

"I'll talk to them," she said. "I'm sure my friends and I can agree on a wish. Then it won't matter which Servant wins. You guys can fight it out to your heart's content and we'll stay safe."

Saber laughed at that. Jass, assuming the laughter was mockery, felt her hairs raise, but then she saw the kind look on his face. He was unworried.

"Talk to them, please. But if you come up with any plan that doesn't involve me taking the Grail, you will be hard pressed to command me. At the conclusion of the war, one Servant and one Master—one pair—are granted their wishes. I shall have mine."

Jass stared at him, trying to see how serious he was.

"I'm sure there's still plenty I don't understand, but aren't you here at my pleasure?" She couldn't gauge his reaction. "Could I not send you back to wherever you come from, and be done with all this?"

"Do you not seek the Grail?"

"If my friends agree with me, then their wishes are mine. It doesn't matter who wins."

Saber shrugged.

"You know them better than I. If you are certain they share your wish, you have no reason to continue fighting. Luckily for you, I am above threatening you to stay in the war. But let me ask you this, Master: _are_ you certain they share your wish? And how safe do you think you are, even if you dismiss me?"

"What do you mean?"

"As we speak, any number of Servants may be preparing to kill you. Taking out the Master would seem the path of least resistance for the likes of Assassin or Caster. And you are not even a magus."

Jass considered this. She couldn't put it past Onson to come for her. She could text everyone that she was quitting, but would she believe it if she received such a text from Onson? It would seem a ploy. An hour earlier she couldn't have fathomed distrusting anyone from the group. She had said "close friends," but they were more than that. She also couldn't have fathomed Bobsom's sudden death, and that changed everything. She shook her head sadly, opened the group chat on her phone, and began typing.

"I'll keep you around for now," she said.

Saber nodded in her peripheral vision, then sat back down and began strumming again. Jass finished typing her brief message—"we need to talk"—and turned back to her Servant.

"What is that thing?" she asked.

Saber's eyes were closed. "It is a lyre," he said, "capable of lifting any spirit and driving off any evil."

Jass finished her glass of water and sighed deeply. This whole thing was fucked. Jerry had disappeared, Onson had turned evil, Bobsom was dead. A magical spirit that claimed to be King David was relaxing in her apartment, playing strange melodies on a stranger instrument. She had to figure out how to come to some kind of agreement with the others. No more fighting, no giant swords or magic circles. Fuck the Grail. She just wanted to forget the image of Bobsom's corpse, and to finish the reading for English 440.

Just as she was starting to feel hungry, finally, and actually considered doing something about it, Saber spoke up again.

"We still need a better safehouse for you."

_Fuck_.

# # #

The voice sounded like it was coming over an old radio. Slowly, the static cleared and the words emerged.

"... at all, Captain. With these methods we can have a Holy Grail War every year, at least." Silence, waiting for a response. "Yeah, yeah, we got his notes. It's all here. We can begin preparations for the next one immediately."

Onson felt he was lying on something hard, long, flat, wooden. His left side was pressed up against another wooden slab.

"Okay, yes. But what should I do with this crop of kids? ... What?" A distant chuckle. "If you say so, Captain. Yes Ma'am, freedom from men and God."

A couple footsteps came from a few feet away.

"Sorry, kid, did I wake you?"

Onson forced his eyes open. The room was dark, illuminated only with what seemed to be candlelight. He lay on a wooden pew, in at least a short row of them, judging by the presence of another to his right. The ceiling above looked like worked rock, the floor below carpeted.

"Where am I?" he asked, looking up at a white-robed blonde man whose haircut could have placed him in an Eastern German village, marching against Merkel's refugee plans.

"First of all, you're safe. Sit up, let's talk."

The man's voice was friendly. He offered Onson a hand, but Onson didn't accept it, instead pushing himself up with a palm on the pew bench. Shrugging, the robed man stepped back and then leaned against the next pew.

"I'm guessing you don't know what you've gotten yourself into. Thankfully, I am the Church-appointed supervisor for this Holy Grail War. While you're in my sanctuary you are untouchable, and I can fill you in on all the details. Where shall I start?"

"The top, probably," said Onson, grimacing as he finished waking up and tasted the inside of his mouth.

"Alright. One thousand years ago, a family of magi known as the Einzberns uncovered one of the truest forms of magic, said to grant immortality by turning one's soul into a the magical equivalent of a perpetual motion machine. This art was never fully mastered, however, and—"

"How relevant is the backstory?" Onson interrupted.

"You said the top," the priest reminded him, frowning. "Anyway, to make a long story short, to this day, magi seek the power of this lost art—among others—, and the Holy Grail War is one method of accessing it. Now kid, do you prefer comforts or truths?"

"Truths."

"Your professor Jerry Cormic is dead. He was an idiot dabbler and got played by a secret society of British magi. They used the mana released by his death—magical energy, mana—as the final catalyst to start the Grail War, trapping you and your friends in a deadly game. You are Masters, and the magical beings you summoned are Servants, manifestations of the Grail's power. With me so far?"

"Yes." He wasn't really with it, but he could follow along if he pretended it was the back cover of a bad fantasy novel.

"Okay. To access the Grail's power, these manifestations must be destroyed, their mana fed back to the Grail. The last standing Master and Servant pair get to wish on the Grail, their desired miracles realized."

"Jerry said he was going to have his wish granted by the Grail."

"Jerry didn't know what he was getting into," said the priest. "Like I said, he got played. If he hoped for a shot at the Grail, he would have had to be chosen by it and summon a Servant of his own." The priest smiled sadly. "It's too bad for him, really. He could have wiped the floor with the rest of you, probably, since he was a magus and you kids aren't."

"What does that have to do with anything?" asked Onson. He vaguely knew that Jerry thought himself a wizard, but until now that hadn't meant much.

"For one thing," said the priest, standing straight and then walking over to a small altar, "the Grail provides the mana for the summoning of the Servants, but they are anchored in this world by their Masters. They need their Masters' mana to stick around long, especially if they get into combat. Magical energy is needed to maintain a Servant's physical form, to heal its injuries, to power its strongest attacks, and that typically comes from the Master."

"I can't do that, then," said Onson.

"Conveniently for you, it's a level playing field. None of your friends can. There are other ways to feed a Servant, especially if you can find a magus... have sex with them, or drink their blood, or eat their heart. Doubtless some of your friends are hunting for magi as we speak."

"Hunting for magi?" Onson asked. "How would you even find them? Aren't they rare?"

"They're not abundant, no," said the priest. "But a big city like this is bound to have at least a few thousand folks with magical circuits, whether or not they know how to use their powers."

"And you're telling me that my friends have jumped right into this, whole-heartedly, and are going to go around murdering people in order to power their Servants?" Onson could barely finish the question, the idea angered him so. His friends were angels.

"The Grail is on the line, kid. Their Servants want to win; they want to win. Don't you want to win? Your hands aren't clean."

"What have I done?" asked Onson. "I didn't do anything. I just passed out from shock."

The priest burst out laughing, a deep belly laugh.

"Kid, you got first blood." Onson's eyes widened. "I'm the supervisor; of course I see what happens. You all summoned your Servants in the same room, and your Assassin killed Archer's Master in a flash."

Assassin!

"That was her?" Onson asked, blanching. "Where is she?"

"I'm here, Master." The voice came as if she sat a foot away on the pew. Onson felt like he couldn't move away fast enough, jumping up and running backward into the aisle.

"Stay away," he yelled, trying to sound commanding but knowing that he sounded frightened.

"Fear not, Master, I won't harm you. I dematerialized to preserve our resources."

Onson backed away further.

"You, you killed Bobsom?"

"If that was the name of Archer's Master, yes." Assassin sounded proud. "My ability to defend you from attacks is close to zero, and I cannot win a fair fight against most Servants. I assessed that to best protect you in that moment, I should go on the offensive against the Master of the Servant most immediately threatening you."

Onson felt a cold fury build inside him.

"I didn't ask you to hurt anyone."

"You asked me to abide the summons and laws of the Grail. One down, five to go."

"Fuck!" yelled Onson, kicking the nearest pew, causing a magnificent pain to burst through his foot. "Fuck the Grail. I didn't want it, I wanted to make Jerry happy. Why are we dying? Why are we fighting?"

"For better or worse," interjected the priest, "you are a Master in the war now. Don't hate Assassin, who only did more efficiently what another Servant was slower to attempt."

"Is there no way out?" asked Onson.

"Normally, you could give your Command Seals to another magus willing to make a contract with your Servant." The priest pursed his lips. "But Jerry made some mistakes, and I'm afraid you're stuck with her until she loses or the war ends."

"Lose," said Onson simply.

"Excuse me, Master?"

"Go find another Servant and die. I'm done."

"I refuse," said Assassin.

"Aren't I your Master?"

"And my will, yours," came the voice. "Your words. We have a contract. I will obtain the Grail. Help me as little as you like, but I will not sabotage my own odds. And Master—" Suddenly the voice was coming from directly behind Onson, and he jumped forward, turning to see the green woman standing inches away. "—you _will_ keep my mana up. You will figure out a way. You may find I can be quite—" Her hands encircled his face, millimeters from his skin. "—_convincing_."

"Don't scare him to death, Assassin," laughed the priest. "You won't get far without a Master."

"Tch."

Assassin vanished in a blue flash, and Onson reeled backward, falling on his butt.

"What should I do?"

"My advice?" asked the priest. "Win. Worst case scenario, you use the Grail to bring your friends back to life."

"It can do that?"

"It's the cup in which the blood of Jesus Christ was collected. It works miracles, kid."

Onson looked up at the crucifix on the altar. Wait. The likeness wasn't just uncanny.

"Jesus is one of the Servants."

The priest raised his eyebrows, poorly-feigned surprise.

"I have to kill Jesus to win?" Onson asked. "What the fuck have I been dragged into?"

"Again, it's the Holy Grail War. And you would do to stop thinking of it as 'being dragged in.' You made a contract with a Servant. You chose to speak those words and begin the ritual. You may be young, and you may not be a magus, but you have a chance at a miracle, kid. Most people would kill for this opportunity. You already have! So just stick with it."

"I really don't like you," said Onson.

"You really don't have to," said the priest. "I'll protect you while you're here, whether or not we're buddies. And once you leave, fair warning, you're on your own."

"Fuck," said Onson, standing and brushing himself off. He felt around in his pocket for his cellphone and produced it. Zero bars. "Are we underground or something? I'm going outside to call my friends. We can figure this out." He started walking toward the exit, double doors opposite the altar.

"Careful, kid." Onson stopped. "I said you're on your own once you leave, and I meant it. You should realize the danger you now face, constantly. You are likely to be attacked the second you step outside."

"Great," said Onson. "Is there a back door?"

The priest shook his head.

"Assassin, go out first." She'll take a hit, I'll run.

"Gladly, Master." He was surprised. "We should come up with a plan first, though. Will you stay here until I have finished off our competition? The priest will watch you for as long as the war continues."

"What?" Onson threw up his hands. "You want me to hide in this hole until you're done murdering my friends?"

"That is one way to put it."

"Fuck no," said Onson. "We're going out, you're going to stop any psycho Servants that try to kill me, and I am going to talk to my friends. While you and your fellow magic assholes kill each other over this Grail thing, we'll bury our friend and drink ourselves into a stupor. If you make it to the end, good for you."

"I am surprised by your naivety, Master."

"Shut up, and get out there."

"No."

"Then fuck it I am _going_."

"No." Assassin materialized in front of the doors, arms spread. She looked past Onson. "Priest, what is your name?"

"Hubert Manweal."

"You said the ritual was incomplete, and that Masters can't transfer their Command Seals willingly."

"Correct."

"I won't last long if my Master dies, but if I find a suitable replacement quickly enough, I can form a new contract, correct?"

"Correct."

Onson's heart caught in his throat.

"Hubert Manweal, Priest of the Church. Will you fight for the Grail?"

"Of course," said the priest.

"Wait—"

"You seem to be a magus. Will you not supply me with mana? Will you not guarantee our success?"

"Definitely. I would kill for the chance."

"Would you kill this boy?"

Onson fell to his knees, curled into a ball. Stop it, stop it—

"I can't do that," said Hubert. "Not while he receives my sanctuary."

"Then I will," shrugged Assassin.

She stepped toward Onson.

"Use a Command Seal, kid!" yelled the priest, and Onson found himself looking at the back of his right hand. He was hopelessly confused and scared, but he knew what he wanted more than anything else: to survive. Without fully understanding why, he focused on the flowers painted on his hand and wished for his life to be spared. One of the three flowers faded into his skin, leaving just the top and left side of the skull pattern intact. A red light flashed through the room and Assassin stopped, an arm's length away.

She spat at Onson's feet. The carpet wilted and burned where her saliva touched it.

"Sorry," said Hubert, addressing Assassin. "I can't let you kill him here, either."

"You are a lucky man," she said, disdainfully, looking down on Onson. "And I am a fool for bringing you here to protect you."

Onson said nothing, rocking slightly in place.

"The way I see it, we have three options. Would you like to hear them?" Assassin waited for a response, then continued when none was forthcoming. "One, you can hide here while I win the war. Two, we can step outside so that you can die and I can create a new contract with the priest. Three, we can formulate a plan for winning this war _together_."

Assassin paced, the carpet crumbling beneath her bare feet.

"I will take care of him if he stays," said Hubert, "and I will take care of you if he goes."

"Master," said Assassin, impatient. She crouched down, knees, wrists, and face level with Onson's tired gaze. "Every second we waste, the enemy Servants refine their plans. They devise traps, prepare weapons. I don't have all day." She stood and stomped her foot. "If you can't talk, raise your hand. One, two, or three."

Onson thought he would die after all, then and there, burning to a crisp in his shame, as he lifted one finger above his head.


	4. In the Labyrinth :: B

In the Labyrinth

B

September 19

"Uh, am I interrupting?" Karli asked, only one foot in the room, hand still on the knob.

"No, no, come in," said Jerry, waving to her from his desk with a smile. Between them, Jass sat on Bobsom's lap, back to Karli, stradling him, legs glaringly bare beneath a hiked-up skirt that scarcely covered her butt. Her shoes were off, and her socks were on, suggesting that the bit of balled-up fabric tucked into her right shoe—

Karli blushed, hesitated. Jerry waved again, ushering her in.

"Close the door," he said.

Karli quickly obeyed, shuffling in and pulling the door behind her.

"I guess it's not quite a public spectacle," she said with a lame laugh, hoping the joke would lighten an atmosphere heavy with kissing and panting.

"Helps keep the mana in," corrected Anatoli. He didn't look up from Reform or Revolution as he spoke. He was a first-year like the rest of them, but he had been here before the others, and he seemed to have an intuitive understanding of the vagaries of Jerry's experiments.

Onson locked eyes with Karli from his spot by the window where he had been tending to his orchid. He smiled as if to say he had appreciated her joke. He was good at that, had been good at that from the start.

Raul and Rey were in class, and with Jass in Bobsom's lap, there were four empty chairs. Karli didn't know which seat to take, which way to face, which direction to look, but she also realized she wasn't uncomfortable. She loved Jass, and she loved Bobsom, and Jass and Bobsom loved each other. Karli didn't know what it was. Maybe it was a deep-seated voyeurism. Maybe it was the hypnotic quality of Jerry's gentle humming. Maybe it was just the overwhelming beauty of the orchids.

Karli sat down directly adjacent to Bobsom, patted him on the shoulder, and felt at home.


	5. 03 - The Limits of Imagination

"Does this satisfy you?" Caster asked, standing back and looking at Karli Dandleton's face.

"You fixed it all," she murmured in amazement.

"I did no such thing," Caster said sternly. "It was your faith that repaired this building."

They stood on Greene Street, looking up at Jerry's office. Where seconds before had been a gaping hole, there was now a neat facade. Sneaking past the police line had been easy, too: with a word Caster had Jedi Mind Tricked the cops on guard. Karli believed in magic—she had to have, to participate as she had in Jerry's ritual—and now she believed in something else, too. What twelve years of Catholic school had only served to cast doubt upon was undeniably true. Here was living proof of God.

When Caster had explained the Grail War to her, Karli had done the requisite mental gymnastics to accept everything he said. She accepted that she was a Master, and he, a heroic spirit made manifest by the power of the Holy Grail, her Servant. They would have to defeat the six other Servants—Saber, Archer, Lancer, Rider, Berserker, Assassin—in order to complete the ritual Jerry had started and have their wishes granted. No, only five: Archer's Master, her dear friend Bobsom, was already dead.

"If you're here, does that mean the rapture is happening?" she had asked, hesitant.

Caster had thought long and hard about that one, as if puzzling through a lengthy computation or accessing deep memories. "I see that my legend has grown to absurd proportions in my absence," he had laughed, ultimately. "But whatever is said of my powers, it was never my own will or ability that changed the world. I always said I was above all a son of Man. My connection to the divine is as anyone's: a belief in the glory of God."

Karli had gaped at that one.

Now she stood in a deserted street as news helicopters circled above. She was invisible to them, Caster assured her, as the truth of God had been to the Pharisees. "Can you hide me forever?" His class suggested that he was a powerful magician, but he denied it. "The only thing I control is what I say, to whom, and when. Others may arrive at truth without me."

"Why do you seek the Grail?" she had asked. "Is it not your own blood that makes it Holy?"

"I don't know," he had admitted. "I doubt the object of this ritual is that same goblet. As for my wish, I should like to keep that to myself for now."

Karli hadn't pressed him.

"Shall we?" she asked, pointing up at Jerry's office. The sun was beginning to set. If Caster was to be believed, time was of the essence. They had to move.

Caster nodded, produced a whip, and with one crack broke down a door.

They entered the dark hallway and followed the glowing green EXIT signs in reverse, slowly making their way up the U-shaped stairs to the fourth floor. Halfway up, Caster stopped, one hand on Karli's shoulder.

"What's wr—"

The thunderous sound of galloping cut her off. It was right below her, on the stairs. She didn't have a second to think before the gleaming white stallion burst onto the landing beneath her, its white-clad rider brandishing a riding sword. Caster quickly maneuvered between her and and the mounted warrior. Karli, a deer in headlights, hoped that God would see her faith, no longer a blind faith nor a skeptical faith, hoped He would see how she gave herself up to his glory. It's not that I need a miracle to survive, she understood. It's that God is merciful, and that already is the miracle.

With a word from Caster that Karli didn't understand, the stairwell glowed with white light and the stairs folded up into a solid wall. The rider crashed headlong into it, then—judging by the sound—fell crumpled on the landing.

"Run," urged Caster, and they ran.

"Karli, Princess," came a voice from behind them as they cleared the third floor. It sounded like a young John Cusack, and Karli looked over her shoulder to see the most beautiful man in the world walking up the steps toward her. She'd never seen a smile before, she realized. This was a smile and no one else on this miserable planet was capable. He wore a suit of all white, like Caster's robes, with a red sash, like Caster's but narrower, running between golden epaulets and a golden belt. His sword hung on his hip. His hands were empty, both outstretched as if to welcome Karli into the hug that would ruin all other hugs.

He was gaining on her, and she became dimly aware that she had stopped running.

Why would she?

"Come, my Princess," he said, stopping at the landing and extending his arms. "You have worked so hard."

She had! She had fought tooth and nail for her 4.6 GPA, her scholarships, her summer jobs. She had met the every need of her nasty sisters, and taken care of all the housework, too! And when she finally got her acceptance letters, she stayed here, in her hometown, so that she could be just a few subway stops away from her stepmother's house. She visited weekends, doing laundry, tidying, scrubbing. She had worked incredibly hard! And she thought she would always continue to. Was this beautiful man offering her a break? He loved her, she could tell; he would treat her well, reward her for her toils, offer her massages at the end of each day.

In a daze of fantasies, Karli took a step toward him.

Then Caster's hand was on the collar of her shirt, pulling her away, and she remembered that she didn't have any sisters. Her mother and father were happily married and supporting her through college. They lived in Columbus, and the beautiful man was drawing his sword, smile forgotten.

They ran up the last flight of stairs, chased by the dashing stranger, and Caster closed the hallway behind them with a brief incantation.

"I'll hold him here," he said, "you get the plants."

Karli nodded and started down the hall. Behind her, she could hear metal ringing on stone, crashing and crumbling. This was the Holy Grail War. Caster was her Servant, and he was battling another. They could fight to the death. Perhaps the man in white would win. Karli didn't care too much about winning, and she understood that if her Servant died she would be removed from he war, safe, a civilian once more. The thought upset her more than she thought it would. She thought back to the summoning chant as she ran. She had promised to be all that was good. But Caster was all that was good. A direct channel to God, the strongest voice of humility and faith. She couldn't bear the idea of him losing, dying. She wanted to see his wish come true.

That's why she was here, she reminded herself, taking a deep breath outside Jerry's door. She wasn't a magus. She couldn't replenish her Servant's mana. Luckily, Jerry had prepared the orchids, which Caster had assured her were powerful stores of mana. "Like giant batteries," he had said. For three months Karli had tended to her own, watched her friends tend to theirs, all while Jerry watched over them.

"We're healing the world," Jerry had said. "The love and attention you show these flowers will multiply within you."

A "manaetic experiment," Jerry had called it. He had mentored the seven, nurtured them as they nurtured the orchids, dispelled their every frustration. Mana was the life force of the planet, of every living thing on it, and it was also an energy source to be tapped for magic. "None of us can do that, of course," Jerry had laughed. The wizards had all died off with Rome. But he was interested in mana regardless. Not to do magic, but to build people up. Mana saturation was for the soul what nine hours of sleep was for the body. That's how he had explained it. And the orchids were the foci. By developing the orchids' mana pools, he had said, the group would develop their own. "We build each other up," he would say, his favorite catchphrase. "We" included the orchids.

Karli felt like there were some disconnects between what Jerry had said and what Caster had told her, but that wasn't a surprise. Jerry had clearly been wrong about something: it was after six p.m. on November 28th, and he did not have the Grail. Nor would he ever, Karli assumed. He hadn't returned her texts, her calls. He had vanished.

In the meantime, Karli had received a text—one text, from Jass, on the group chat. "we need to talk." Caster had discourage replying, on the grounds that any response could give away vital information to the enemy. Enemies. Her dear friends, enemies. She had wanted to argue that point, but realized it was self-evident. Caster was all that was good, so were those opposed to him not necessarily bad?

Another deep breath, and she reached for the door knob. She heard a rustling inside, and froze, hand on that familiar knob.

Enemies.

Of course, she kicked herself. Caster wouldn't have been the only Servant to notice the orchids. That's why the man in white was here. Doubtless his Master was already in Jerry's office. Or maybe there was a third Servant on the scene. Karli quickly stepped away from the door and ducked around the wall so that if something exploded out of the office she would be relatively safer, even if only for a moment before she could attempt to flee.

"Who's in there?" she asked, quietly. "Raul? Onson?"

"Karli?" It was a woman's voice.

The door opened slowly, creaking. Rey McSriff stuck her head out. Her gray-brown hair was in braids, and she wasn't wearing her glasses.

"Karli!" she exclaimed, relief flooding her face. She stepped out into the hallway. "I thought I was dead when I heard footsteps." She held in each hand one potted orchid. The pots, Karli noticed, had been repaired along with the rest of the room.

"Rey!"

Karli felt the same relief. Whatever Jerry's experiment had sought to accomplish, it had succeeded in cementing the bonds between the seven students. Karli loved Rey deeply, in every way. She felt like they had grown up together, like they had raised each other, like they had shared everything they could possibly have shared. Her immediate fear was pushed back as she hugged her friend, all rationalizing about enemies forgotten.

"Karli, we need to talk," said Rey, stepping back, shrugging out of Karli's arms, still holding onto the plants.

Jass's words. "I know."

"No, you don't know. Listen. I'll share him, okay?" Karli blinked, confused. "You can have your pleasure with him whenever he's up for it, I won't bat an eye, I won't complain. I might even like it. Maybe we can have him together."

"What are you on about?" asked Karli.

"Karli, this is serious. You can have him, you can be had by him. I will do anything to make this work. Do you understand me?"

"Understand? You're talking nonsense." Karli dragged Rey into the office, further from the fighting down the hall. "Who are you even talking about?"

"My Prince," sighed Rey, flushed. She licked her lips, then sighed again. "Oh Karli, you're in for such a treat. I'll be a good senior wife, okay? We are going to have a beautiful family, the three of us."

Karli, at a loss, slapped Rey, and Rey dropped the orchids.

"Fuuuck, Karli!" Rey clutched her cheek, wincing. "That hurt!" She staggered back, resting with her butt against Jerry's desk. Then she put her hands at her sides and eased herself up onto the desk. She turned her reddened cheek to Karli. "Kiss it better?"

Karli wanted to, but how many minutes had passed already? How was Caster faring? Karli had to grab the plants and go. She and Caster would regroup at her dorm room, where he had begun building his territory. He wasn't good in prolonged combat, he'd warned her. Especially not without preparation. Most Casters had poor combat skills, he'd explained, but he was the worst of the worst: his legendary pacifism made him unable to do more than evade.

"We'll talk later, Rey." She moved for the window.

"Waaaait," whined Rey. She had Karli's right wrist in a vise grip. "You can't have those. They're our dowry."

Karli tried to worm out of Rey's grasp, but her friend was too strong. Each thing she said sounded more absurd than the previous. Karli had to get the plants and get out. Her mind focused on the solitary task, she pulled herself toward the windowsill, dragging Rey across the desk with her.

"This could be fun," Rey giggled. "I could stand to get handled by both of you at once."

Still freaked out by the false memories she'd entertained while staring into the smile of the man in white, Karli deliberately took stock of her memories of Rey.

This was abnormal behavior. The forwardness wasn't what was weird—it was the fixation on a man. Rey had experimented, as they all had under Jerry's supervision, trying on, as it were, a number of different relations. Despite the love Rey shared with the men in the group, she remained resolutely lesbian. With Karli's paradigms still reshaping, she nonetheless guessed this new behavior was the fault of magic. Some kind of charming enchantment, perhaps. Karli needed to act, and she decided that her friend simply wasn't in the room with her.

Karli twisted her arm, punching Rey at the same time with her left fist. Rey gasped and let go, and Karli took the opportunity to shove Rey to the floor. As Rey scrambled to stand, Karli scooped up four of the orchids and darted from the room.

"Got them," she called down the hall, to where Caster stood raising barrier after barrier of magical masonry, only to have them torn down just as quickly by the rapid onslaught from the other Servant.

Then she turned and ran, as fast as she ever had, making her way down the north stairwell and breaking out into the street. She was sure she looked a mess, hands red, gasping for air, clutching a bunch of potted flowers to her chest like stolen babies. Luckily, the police barricades were still up, and she was alone on the street. Praying to God that Rey would come to her senses, that Caster would survive, that no other Servants would show up before she was reunited with her Servant, she jogged raggedly toward Coral Tower.

# # #

The explosion had rocked the building, and with it the NYU community. All the buildings around Washington Square Park had been evacuated. NYPD and the fire department had shown up with barricades. Then the feds arrived. Sixteen years later, 9/11 lingered in the air, in the psyche.

Linda Bell, professor of English with research interests primarily around 19th century novels, had been one door over when Jerome Cormic's office blew up. Books flew off her shelves, and one of her own windows cracked as the walls buckled. She'd run into the hall, terrified, and left the building as fast as she could. People streamed out of 244 Greene Street, and soon there had been a stampede as people ran for the open space of the park.

She had been there. She had heard it, seen it, felt it. Her body ached from the dash, her ears from the noise.

So why, she wondered, for the first time in her life considering the fact that she might be one of the crazy people, why was this talking head on ABC News saying that there'd been a false alarm?

Alleged aerial footage of the scene showed no visible damage to the exterior. No rubble in the streets.

"NYPD is continuing to investigate the source of this hoax."

Linda screamed silently at her TV.


	6. In the Labyrinth :: C

In the Labyrinth

C

November 11

"It's wilting a bit," Raul said, pointing to the middle orchid.

"So it is," replied Jerry.

No one else was in the room. Jerry wasn't humming. It was seven in the morning. A Saturday.

"That's Rey's, right. Mean anything?"

"Everything means something." Jerry flashed that smile, that infuriating smile. It ended arguments; it made Raul get up at this obscene hour.

"You won't tell me."

"I've already told you," chuckled Jerry, wagging a finger. "We build each other up."

Raul shook his head, unable to stop from smiling. The professor was a caricature of himself. But that was fine. Raul walked up to him where he sat at the desk, magical diagrams strewn about before him. With his right hand on his own orchid and his left on Jerry's chest, Raul bent forward.

"Sure we can build somethin up, Jerry."

Jerry just kept smiling, the gentle, knowing grin splitting his clean-shaved face. He was still smiling after Raul kissed him, unmoved, eyes twinkling. Raul's hand moved, and the top two buttons of Jerry's purple striped shirt came undone.

"Feel like talkin?"

"Hmm," said Jerry. He winked. "I feel like the answer might just be on the tip of my tongue."

Raul grunted, stepped back, and dropped his pants, the cool air of the unheated room bracing on the swollen nub of his dick. Jerry's expression didn't change. There wasn't a hint of surprise in his face. There never had been, and Raul treasured that. There was, of course, the sly smile, curling at the corners.

"My. We sure built something."

Jerry wasn't like this with the others. The teasing, the flirting. With the group, he was friendly but serious. When they were alone, he was out of control, silly despite himself. It was only when they were both spent, holding hands, staring down at the waking city through the window, that Jerry could answer.

"Rey's depressed, Raul."

"What do we do?"

Jerry didn't answer, his grip on Raul's hand tightening as he watched the people go by below. He wasn't smiling.


	7. 04 - How Like a Man

Raul Chamgerlain sat with his back to a tree in Washington Square Park, trying not to listen Berserker's stream as he pissed on a nearby bush, three limbs on the ground, one leg raised like a dog. The evening chill was starting to set in and Raul had no idea where to go or what to do. He couldn't safely return to his dorm room in Weinstein Hall. He and Anatoli were roommates. That situation had oscillated between lovely and thrilling for three months, but now it was just complicated. Jerry's ritual had changed everything. Raul's cellphone battery had died, and his charger was in that room, a room he didn't dare return to. He couldn't reach his friends and he didn't know if he would be next to go after Bobsom. He needed to get a new charger and find shelter, and Berserker's social graces weren't making it easy.

Berserker finished urinating and sat down crosslegged in front of Raul. With his hands on his knees, he assumed something resembling human posture.

Raul knew that this was Berserker, but he wasn't sure how he knew that. He hadn't been told. Berserker certainly hadn't told him. Berserker hadn't told him anything. Raul was starting to think that Berserker couldn't even talk. At the very least, he had zero interest in speech. His face bore a constant expression of tired disdain, apparent through caked-on layers of grime. Raul felt he had received the short end of the stick. Onson had summoned a cool-looking orc lady and Karli had Jesus Christ. What did he have? Berserker had muscles, sure—he was clearly jacked—but he smelled like shit and just grunted at everything. A washed up mute Conan.

Despite the lack of spoken communication, Raul found himself understanding more of his situation as he watched Berserker roll around in the underbrush. He had been thrust into a summoner's battle royale. His dog man had to crush some skulls. The other summons had to die for Raul to win, and one way to accomplish that was to kill the other summoners. Raul shuddered as he pictured Bobsom's putrefying face.

If he'd been asked that morning, "Hypothetical: you and your gang summon a bunch of weird aggressive entities and are forced to fight until only one remains. You can improve your odds by killing your friends. What does everyone do?" he would have said firmly, confidently, without a hair's hesitation: we will all survive. It would be a game to us, maybe a spectacle. We would send our summons against each other and sit back. Eat some popcorn.

But Bobsom was dead and now Raul wasn't sure he'd ever truly understood his friends. He watched Berserker reach down and grab his own crotch, then quickly looked away as the man's hand began jerking back and forth beneath his rags. Feeling a pang of envy for Berserker's apparently boundless sense of freedom, Raul shut his eyes to stop from staring. He didn't understand how Berserker could do this, not even remotely discretely, but maybe he'd never understood anyone. He had always been alone. Even his younger sister had abandoned him when he'd come out. New York was a fresh start. Raul. New name, new confidence. And for a while, it was working. Six new friends, dear friends, friends he could hug, friends he could kiss, friends he could talk to about his problems. But that was in Jerry's gentle presence. Optimism had abounded in that small office.

What would those optimists say now?

Jerry had vanished and his ritual had killed Bobsom. Raul thought of that sweet neck turning purple, the soft fuzz of Bobsom's chin blackening, flaking. As quickly as Raul had won this new life, he'd lost it. It was hard to believe, and the rationalizations developed themselves at light speed. They'd never been that close. The group had been artificial, their relationships constructed by Jerry to incomprehensible ends. Jass had never liked how he and Bobsom spent their Tuesdays, rolling dice in the Geek NYC Monster Hearts game. Anatoli's brocialist sect had never put itself on the line to defend trans lives. And don't forget Onson, skyping his mom in Sweden, a little too proud to have a black friend. These people, however darling, were still raised in partriarchy, in racism, in heretonormativity.

Raul was tempted by a question that came into his head—what really IS socialization, anyway—but he brushed it aside. He didn't have the time nor the pressing need to philosophize about society. Instead he waited for Berserker to finish, reviewing what he knew.

Actions spoke louder than words.

He and his friends had, in fact, entered this battle.  
One of these friends had killed Bobsom, or had him killed.  
He had an incredibly strong, if incredibly filthy, man ready to fight for him.

The rest followed.

"Berserker?" he asked tentatively, eyes still closed, when the sound of the man's exultant panting subsided.

A grunt of affirmation, and Raul opened his eyes. Berserker crouched before him, once again on all fours.

"I wanna survive."

Another grunt.

"I wanna win."

A gleam in the dirty man's eye.

"So let's talk. Go over your powers, my part, strategy."

Berserker smiled and stood, stick suddenly in hand. He mimed hitting someone over the head with it.

"Talk, Berserker. Can't you talk?"

_Why talk?_ Raul found himself wondering. Words are just used to hide the truth and justify the rules that allow one class to dominate society at the expense of others. If something is useful, it will be clearly expressed in actions, in the states of things. Raul laughed quietly.

"I guess we just go find a fight."

Maybe returning to his dorm room was the correct move. If Anatoli was similarly afraid to come home, Raul would have a safe and comfortable base of operations. And if Anatoli was there, Raul could take Berserker for a test drive.

"You get me," he said, "and I'm your Master, so listen up. I tell you the plan. We adjust based on how things develop."

Berserker grimaced at him, but did not urinate on him, so he continued.

"We go back to my place. I need to provision. We'll prolly run into one o' my—I mean, another Master. Anatoli. If we can beat his Servant without hurting him, I wanna try, but bottom line we gotta win. Keep me alive."

An assenting grunt encouraged him to stand, brush himself off, and walk the couple blocks to Weinstein Hall.

Berserker followed him.

The streets were empty. The whole area around Washington Square had been evacuated when Jerry's office blew up, and the barricades were still up. Raul took a half-block detour to pass along Greene Street, and he looked up to see that where at 4:30 there had been a crater in the side of the building, Jerry's office now seemed perfectly intact.

He wasn't even surprised.

He reached Weinstein Hall and debated what to do about Berserker. Could he simply bring him in? The residence hall hadn't been evacuated. It was just on the other side of the area that NYPD had decided to cordon off. Students would be milling about, many just now having their dinners, and while Berserker might not look too odd a sight in a public park, he definitely wouldn't fit into the chic lobby.

Somehow, Raul couldn't make himself care. He walked through the front doors with Berserker in tow. He wasn't sure how—he'd never been so calm, so effortlessly gregarious—but he smiled back at the students in the hallways who stared. Berserker followed him in near silence, and they took the elevator up to the seventh floor.

From the elevator Raul could already tell trouble awaited. He could see the door to his room as the elevator doors opened. It was ajar, the lights on.

He gestured for Berserker to follow him out into the hall, stepping quietly, wondering at his luck. There was no one else in the hall. All the other doors were closed. It would be just him and Anatoli, Berserker and whoever Anatoli had summoned. And in a straightforward, one on one fight, Raul felt confident. Berserker was strong, bestial. Who had Anatoli summoned? He couldn't remember—was it the archer? The pirate? Either way, he didn't think Berserker's odds could be too bad in close quarters combat.

Raul crept along the hall, back to the wall, heart racing as he approached his room. His stealth was wasted, however. Two doors away from his destionation, Berserker suddenly let out a guttural cry and leapt forward, stick in hand, charging ahead and into the room. Raul backed away, not sure he approved of Berserker's gracelessness but very happy to leave the confrontation to his Servant.

Some crashing noises ensued. Raul heard what must have been a desk collapsing, and then Berserker was thrown into the hall, landing on his back. He scrambled to his feet just in time to dodge the swing of an immense sword. The sword's wielder was hidden from sight, still in the threshold of Raul's room, but the blade was so massive its length crossed half the span of the hallway.

Raul backed further away and watched in awe as Berserker spun back into action and swung into the doorway, stick producing a bone-cracking sound. The sword fell to the ground, causing a slight tremor in the floor, and then Berserker reeled backward clutching his shoulder. Raul blinked. There had been another crack, and at first he couldn't place it, but then another two followed and Berserker shuddered in pain, staggering back from the doorway, blood seeping into his rags in three places.

A gun.

The sword lifted back into the air, its hilt and wielder still inside the room, then moved forward as its wielder walked into the hallway. It was the green-haired guy with a crown, the one who had appeared at Jass's side that afternoon. His left arm dangled by his side, and he held a sword clearly forged for a giant in his right hand. His posture suggested the blade be made of paper, so effortlessly did he hoist it into the air.

Berserker cowered, bleeding as the man raised his giant sword for the finishing blow.

"Wait!" screamed Raul.

"Wait?" asked the swordsman, glancing down the hall. "A curious entreaty, to demand patience now. My Master called a parley and you came seeking blood. I think we shan't wait."

He swung his sword down, but the seconds Raul had bought were enough, and Berserker rolled out of the way before jumping onto the man's shoulders, clawing at his face with his hands and biting at his hair.

"Hold still!" came an unfamiliar female voice from within the room.

The swordsman dropped his weapon again, trying to bat Berserker off with his good hand.

Raul felt helpless. He didn't know why he had felt confident a moment ago. He didn't get the memo about a parley. He was in the dark. Jass's Servant was here, and there was a woman he didn't know inside. And there was a gun.

Help, he thought, help! Why won't the doors open, why won't other students come out? For the first time in his life Raul wished for security to appear, for someone trained in violence to intercede on his behalf.

No doors opened. No one came running. The entire floor of students somehow ignored the ruckus. Of course. None of Raul's cries for help had ever been answered.

The swordsman managed to dislodge Berserker and, blood streaming down his own face, threw him to the floor.

The two glared at each other for a moment, both wounded, and then Berserker turned tail and ran away, scampering on all fours down the hallway toward the elevator. He didn't say a word as he fled, leaving Raul to collapse to the floor, feeling more vulnerable than he had since leaving everything behind in Indiana.

"Raul Chamgerlain, I take it?"

Raul found himself unable to begrudge Berserker his escape. He knew he, too, needed to run. Fight or flight, a basic binary for animals. And weren't men merely animals? What did that make Raul, he wondered as he knelt there dumbly—more or less than an animal, than a man?

The swordsman retrieved his sword, then made it vanish it by waving it. He stepped aside, clearing the threshold, and pointed into Raul's dorm room.

"I think you should talk to my Master. And make sure your cur doesn't interfere again."

Raul snorted. How like a man, to talk down to a dog.


	8. In the Labyrinth :: D

In the Labyrinth

D

October 4

Anatoli sighed as he slid into the office. He dropped a heavy bundle of papers on the floor, then shrugged out of an even heavier backpack. Red socialist patches covered his gear.

"How was tabling?" asked Karli, tentatively, looking up from her sketchbook.

Jerry hummed softly as Rey painted Onson's nails black. Raul was watering the orchids lightly, and Bobsom dozed in the corner, curled up with his head against a bookshelf. Jass was still downstairs, selling papers.

"Well, people are properly mad about Trump chucking paper towels into the crowd," Anatoli said, unzipping the collar of his fleece jacket and fanning himself, "but it's amazing how many folks think the so-called 'resistance' is going to solve all the problems our Puerto Rican sisters and brothers are facing."

He grimaced as he said the word "resistance," and the room shuddered.

"Anatoli," said Jerry, calmly, not looking up from the diagram he was drawing.

Just that: his name.

Anatoli nodded at the unstated reminder not to bring negativity into the space. He did a quick body scan, and approached Karli.

"Can I bum some water off you?"

She smiled, happy for the request, happy to share. She produced her water bottle and handed it to him. Anatoli quenched his thirst, enjoying the taste of her lips on the mouth of the bottle.

"I'll go refill it," he said.

"That's the way," said Jerry, more to himself than to anyone, smiling as he doodled.

Anatoli left the room, careful to close the door behind him before letting out another sigh. Jerry's experiment was great, his goals greater, but did it all need to be based on such apoliticization? The mana of seven undergrads didn't seem more important than the lives of 1.5 million people left without power in the wake of Hurricane Maria. Surely there had to be some way to build each other up while still discussing the world's problems?


	9. 05 - Ideals Before Science

"Karli? Karli Dandleton?"

Hubert looked the young woman over. He sat in a front row pew in his small sanctuary, gazing into another room through the device in his hand. Moments earlier it had been a mirror, reflecting his own handsome visage and dimly-lit environs. Now it was a magical channel to another place. Caster's Master, standing in a small bathroom, looked a little dumb. Her haircut didn't work and she was pudgy in the wrong places. There was toothpaste on her lower lip.

"The hell?" Karli asked, dropping her toothbrush and frowning back. "Caster, do you see this?"

A man who looked like a brown Jesus stepped into view. Words and numbers floated above his head, likely invisible to Karli. This information confirmed for Hubert that this was Caster, with his Servant stats properly visible to the supervisor of the Grail War.

"Magecraft," said Caster simply. "I think this magus wants to talk to you."

Karli looked at Caster, then back at Hubert. She and her Servant crowded together at the bathroom sink. She tried waving awkwardly.

"My name is Hubert," Hubert said, in his friendliest voice. "I am with the Holy Church, sent to supervise this Grail War in which you find yourself. I am reaching out to all the Masters, to offer you shelter in my sanctuary as you need it and to answer any questions I am capable of answering."

Karli opened her mouth, but Caster was faster to speak.

"I have a question." He looked angry. "Why does this time have so many Christians who blatantly plug their ears, cover their eyes to the glory of God?"

Hubert blinked. This Caster was going to be trouble.

"I can answer your Master's questions about the war," he said, sidestepping.

"I'm also curious about Caster's question," said Karli, "and I don't think it's irrelevant to the topic of the war. If I'm fighting my friends in order to bring Caster's wish to the people of this world, I'd like to know what role you play. Holy Church? Did you engineer this nonsense?"

"My child." Hubert sighed. "I am a mere observer. The engineer, if you could say there even is one, would be the Holy Grail itself, with some assistance from your recently deceased professor."

Karli squinted at him, clearly skeptical. "Okay, I have some other questions that you'll hopefully be more willing to answer."

"Shoot."

"How do we stop the war?"

"The only resolution can be the victory of one Servant over all others."

Hubert wasn't sure if her expression was one of skepticism or failed comprehension. She pressed on.

"What are these red marks on my hand?"

She held the back of her right hand up to the mirror. Three large nails were painted in red, arranged as the sides of a triangle.

"Command Seals," said Hubert. "You can use them to power your Servant's attacks beyond their normal capacity, or to order him to do something he normally wouldn't be willing to do."

"How will I find and defeat the other Servants? What's stopping us from just all going our separate ways, and never completing the war?"

"I am actually curious about that myself," he said. "But I know that your friends and the other Servants wish to win the Grail, and they will seek each other—and you—out. You may also feel the proximity of other Masters in your Command Seals."

"These?"

Karli held up her hand again. She was definitely taking too long to connect his previous answer to his latest. Like professor, like student.

"Any other questions?"

"Is this really Jesus?" she asked, pointing her thumb at Caster.

Hubert burst out laughing, despite himself. Of course it wasn't Jesus. Not exactly. A mere manifestation of the Grail's mana, given abilities and a personality by borrowing the information of a hero's soul, Servants were like Nietzsche's words: metaphors of metaphors. Twice removed from whatever person or legend they performed. Karli looked worried by Hubert's laughter, but Caster seemed unperturbed. It could be so fun to say there was no connection, that this was an evil impostor, and turn Master against Servant. The outcome of the conflict didn't matter. That's why he could play the role of supervisor, watching these children test drive the Grail War with no real stakes. He could say whatever he wanted. He was the supervisor, but he was also the audience, and he had the cast's ear.

"Sorry, my child." Hubert sighed, buying himself time as he tried to decide which lie to tell. "Yes."

"Yes?"

"Yes, this is Jesus, Son of Man, Son of God, our Lord and Savior."

Karli wrinkled her nose, saying nothing. Then she looked at Caster. They didn't say anything to each other, but Hubert knew they didn't need to. Even if Karli Dandleton wasn't a magus, her rights as a Master in the Grail War allowed her to communicate telepathically with her Servant.

Without looking back at the mirror, Karli bent down and picked up a scale. It looked heavy in her hands, a giant brick made to sustain, and quantify, the weight of America's morally bankrupt.

Then Karli swung the scale at Hubert, shattering her mirror and severing the connection.

As his reflection faded back into view, Hubert sat back and placed the hand mirror on the seat next to him.

That had gone okay, he decided. The kids these days didn't seem to dig him—Onson Sweemey hadn't spoken a word since Assassin had left, choosing instead to sulk in a corner of the sanctuary—but that was fine. He didn't dig them either. They all thought they were so special. Jerry's little chosen ones, drunk off the mana of the orchids, living it up in the ivory tower, bathing in cultural Marxist Kool-Aid. Yeah, he saw the way they looked at him.

With another sigh, he gathered his thoughts, straightened his collar, and picked up his mirror. It glowed in his hand, and another scene created itself in its lens. Hubert cleared his throat.

"Anatoli Dustice?"

# # #

Nothing they said made sense. Anatoli was talking about incurring divine wrath, about needing to bring things back to normal. Jass pled passionately about loss of life, about saving friendship. None of it seemed worthwhile to Raul. They were out of their minds, he thought. Concerned purely with what's normal, with society, they had abandoned the obvious. They weren't interested in the Grail, they insisted. They were wrong. Any human would want the Grail. Their care was pretense. As much was obvious in their Servants who, despite being dematerialized at the moment, still exuded a powerful sense of impatience for their arguments. Raul could feel it; couldn't they? Lancer and Saber weren't interested in their Masters' appeals to what's normal for 21st century college students. They wanted the Grail, and they knew their Masters did too. We all wanted the Grail. We said it was for Jerry but didn't we all want it? No one would turn their nose up at a miracle. And Jass, crying about Bobsom like that. They were always fighting. It was subtle. It was small. They always patched it up, for appearances. They knew that Jerry would be sad if they hurt his experiment. So they were happy. They were happy for Jerry, not for each other, themselves. Well Jerry was gone. He had opened a Pandora's Box, in a sense. The evil was the Servants, the hope left behind the Grail. Raul had messed up. He'd been captured. But his Berserker had retreated, and these idiots who cared about friends before miracles weren't going to hurt him. Soon Berserker would return and free him. Jass and Anatoli would see what their morals and qualms were good for when their Servants—and they, as well, if necessary, why not—were rotting outside the city gates, their names scratched into shards of pottery.

"Anatoli Dustice?"

One of the chips of Raul's old standing mirror gleamed. Anatoli reached for it, picking it up carefully. Pieces of broken furniture littered the dorm room where Berserker and Saber had tussled. Raul saw the tiny man waving at him in the mirror shard, and had a visceral reaction to the image despite himself. He didn't understand why. He wasn't of himself or of his own anymore, so why should the thumb-sized Nazi bug him? Soon he would be scavenging for food in the ruins of a hypocritical world. His beliefs were temporary. All ideology was. What curtain could contain the truth of the world forever? The sycophants of morality would fight tooth and nail for their hegemony, but it would crumble even as they clawed for it. There was no avoiding it. The impermanence and hubris of society were too enormous to bear. The masses would come to their senses eventually. Even if Jass and Anatoli didn't make it.

"Who are you?" Jass asked, addressing the mirror.

"The mascot," spat Raul.

Anatoli looked over at him, worry clear on his over-involved face.

"Three Masters together, I see."

"You know about the Grail War?" asked Anatoli.

They prattled on for what seemed like an eternity. Raul sat back against the wall and rested without falling asleep, not caring to hear about the concerns of his old friends nor the opinions of this "priest" Hubert. He was just explaining how the Grail War worked, all obvious if you took a moment to consider it. The problem with people like Anatoli and Jass was that they were too smart. They had truly learned the ways of society, the common knowledge. They were so smart that they had sought to understand it and, in so doing, become slaves to it. Reality escaped them and they relied on the explanations of miniature Nazis in order to adapt their paradigms to new information. And that was fine, in a way. Raul didn't hate them for their intelligence. He didn't mind, even if he judged. It was their prerogative and he wouldn't get in their way. Reality, though? Reality would get in their way. They would have to come to terms with the fact that they wanted to win. They would have to come to terms with the methods of winning. Jass would have to do to Anatoli what someone had already done to Bobsom. Her Saber, the shepherd king with the boyish face and giant's sword, would doubtless obey. He wanted the Grail. He wanted the Grail more than anything.

That's why they're here, you sophomores, he almost shouted. We didn't force them into bondage with our summons. We offered to help them attain the Grail. But it would be too sweet to let his genius peers figure it out for themselves. Smiling at the thought, Raul allowed himself to nod off.

# # #

With Raul finally asleep, Jass put a hand on Anatoli's shoulder. He was, as ever, soft to the touch. He had thick black hair, thicker eyebrows, a full beard. His outfit—double fleece over flannel-lined jeans—completed his teddy bear quality. Beneath the cuddly exterior lay well-grounded wit. She gazed at Raul's sleeping form as she transferred some of her weight to Anatoli.

"I'm worried about him."

"No shit. It's like he's a different person. Hell, he might be."

"He does seem to be affected by some kind of magecraft," said Saber, materializing next to Raul, one delicate hand resting lightly on the unconscious student's brow. To Jass, he added, _speaking directly into her mind, without my Magic Resistance skill, I think I would be too. Berserker was emitting a faint Bounded Field._ The words, issued telepathically, did not make much sense to Jass, but she understood that her Servant had an ability he did not want to announce to Anatoli or Lancer.

_Can you remove it with your lyre?_ she thought back.

_Probably. Would rather do it later._

_We'll see,_ thought Jass.

Saber dematerialized, leaving the three students alone in Anatoli's dorm room. It was a mess. Raul's bed and desk lay in pieces on the floor, mattress torn open and wood splintered everywhere. Berserker's entrance and the initial clash with Saber had leveled half the room and set Jass's heart beating faster than she could recall it ever beating. She counted herself lucky to have been seated next to Anatoli on his bed when the fight started. She sat there still, watching Raul. He was seated in the wreckage of his desk, back against the wall. They'd asked if he wouldn't be more comfortable in a chair, or on Anatoli's bed even, and he had laughed at them.

"So what do we do?" asked Anatoli.

The supervisor Hubert had confirmed Jerry's death and countless details as to how the Grail War was supposed to work. His explanations had raised some new questions and concerns, but they had clarified a lot. Most crucially, he had confirmed Saber's claim that for the Grail to grant a wish, the war would need to reach a resolution, with only one remaining Servant. This crystallized for Jass that beyond getting her friends on board with her plan to resist the war, she needed to get their Servants to approve her plan. So far, she had Anatoli and his Lancer, the red-haired pirate lady. Anatoli was more than friend; he was a comrade, and she trusted him implicitly. He assured her that Lancer's wish was compatible with their plan. Saber was not so trusting, but he agreed to the uneasy alliance.

And uneasy it was. Hubert's comments had done nothing to diminish Jass's fear that Saber might take fate into his own hands at any point if he deemed her methods insufficient for acquiring the Grail. She understood now that Servants needed mana to manifest and fight, and that, not being a magus herself, she wouldn't be able to sustain him for long. If she waited indefinitely for her friends to come to her, to consider her plan and join her, she could lose Saber. And before that, he could sense his imminent dissolution and turn on her.

The only fool-proof safeguard against this seemed to be to use all three of her Command Seals to permanently dismiss Saber, and that wasn't a tactic she felt safe discussing with her friends. Even suggesting it might provoke his ire, or Lancer's. No, Jass's best bet was to act quickly, decisively, to solidify an alliance around her wish and then win.

She rested her forehead on the side of Anatoli's head, head aching from the strain of contemplating possible scenarios. How long was too long to wait for her friends to join her? Rey, Karli, and Onson hadn't even replied to her text. Raul had shown up, but he had shown up swinging. She'd had Anatoli reach into his pocket and check his cell phone, curious if Raul had even seen her message. It had been powered off, out of battery.

"Think anyone else is coming?"

"It's been an hour, Jass. I'm worried our Servants might be right about this one. Most people in this position would just want to win." Anatoli put a hand on the back of her head, holding her to him. His hand was warm, relaxing.

"If they're right, why are we both here?"

"Guilt," Anatoli suggested simply.

"Guilt?"

"If I'd held the line in Jerry's office, none of this would have happened. As for you, you can't accept that it could have been you killing Bobsom."

Anatoli had a blunt streak. It served him well in political debates, but it sure wasn't his most comforting feature. Comfort wasn't the point, though: even as his words stung, Jass knew there was truth to them, and the warmth of his understanding helped immensely. For a moment she could have sworn there was something orchid...ic? orchidinal? about him. He resembled the plants they tended daily for the past months: an endless reservoir. Was this what Jerry called mana? Was his pool big? She felt like she could take a dip in it.

"I'm glad you're here," she said smallly.

"Me too," he said, offering with gestures to make her an instant cocoa using his electric kettle.

She nodded, lifted herself off of him so that he could stand.

"It would be great if our plan works out," she said, trying for the positives.

"Seems possible," said Anatoli. "I don't want to be too optimistic. I expect there will be more surprises, especially from our new British friend." Jass nodded. Maybe they would talk about her new concerns. She waited for Anatoli to say more, and waited, and was almost certain he wouldn't pursue the line further when the kettle went off and he finally said, "I wonder if Jerry knew he was being 'supervised.'"

"Yes!" cried Jass. "Thank you!"

Raul grumbled and stirred, but remained asleep. Jass made a note to lower her voice.

"We were both thinking it, right?" Anatoli handed her the cup. "This guy didn't come out of nowhere. He knew we were going to do that ritual. For all we know, he could have killed Jerry himself. He has an… unsavory air."

"Yes. For all we know, he was manipulating Jerry in the first place. Maybe it was never Jerry's intention to make us fight."

"Possible." Anatoli grimaced. "Look, I don't know how best to put this but I don't want to spend too much time considering Jerry's innocence in all this, painful though it is to say. He was really fantastic, but a lot of evidence points toward him being some kind of evil genius magic scientist who was just conducting fucked up research on us."

Jass lowered her face over her drink, let the steam bathe her features.

"You're right, Anatoli," she said quietly, "you were always right."

"I wasn't right when I let Onson talk me into summoning Lancer," he reminded her. "And in retrospect, I may have also been wrong when I joined Jerry's Intro to Historical Fiction."

"Don't say that." Jass took Anatoli's hand and clutched it against the side of her cup, warming it next to her lips. "I would be so lost without you right now."

_We can use this_, Saber communicated to her. _Your grief, and your potential as a romantic partner to this stoic young man, are potent tools in cementing the alliance you seek_.

Jass released Anatoli's hand and frowned into her drink. She didn't want to use Anatoli. She wanted to work with him. And she certainly didn't want to lead him on. She loved him, of course—they all loved each other, and that was part of what was so weird with Raul tonight—but Bobsom had taken the majority of her present romantic capacity with him to the grave. Her soul was still raw where he had been torn from her just hours earlier. The anime posters above Anatoli's bed did not soothe her.

"To be clear," she began, but then she didn't know how to finish.

"Jass, I think we should assume no one else is coming. It's getting late, and we're all tired." Anatoli looked out the dorm room window into the Manhattan evening. "We should stick together, so that we can have each other's backs, rotate a watch with our Servants, neither of us gets ambushed. Tomorrow we can bring our plan to the branch."

"Okay," said Jass. "Sleepover!" Her joke enthusiasm belied an actual enthusiasm. Even if Raul was unconscious, and a temporary, magically-addled lunatic while conscious, this was still three of them together. All alive. She worried for Rey, for Karli, even for that asshole Onson, all out there somewhere. Maybe fighting each other this very moment. But she couldn't do anything for them from where she was. She had tried, and she would keep trying, to get them on her page. She would text again before sleeping, informing them of her alliance with Anatoli. More invitations, more appeals to friendship. They hadn't worked on Raul, but he was under some kind of weird enchantment. The others might yet come around.

"You can have the bed, I'll take the floor."

"I don't mind sharing," said Jass.

Anatoli smiled at her sadly. "I thrash around a lot in my sleep. Don't worry about it."

Jass shrugged and finished her cocoa. Anatoli stood, recovered the blanket from the splinters of Raul's bed, and laid it out in the middle of the room. Before lying down, he walked over to the closet and produced a roll of duct tape.

"What's that for?"

He jerked a thumb at Raul. "Never too safe."

Jass agreed, and the two set to binding their friend. Halfway through the process, they looked at each other, made eye contact, and chuckled, realizing simultaneously that what could have been a quick restraining job had turned into a ritual of care. As with all the things they had done together in Jerry's office, here they paid attention to every movement, to the folds of Raul's clothes and to the air in his chest, to the flow of kindness through themselves and the tape into Raul's body. In this act they were securing their friend, and the world was richer for it.

Finally Anatoli dimmed the lights and they both lay down. A few minutes passed.

"Jass?" he asked softly.

"Yeah?"

"Thank you."

"What's up?"

"This was all you," he said, tone veering toward mumbling, a sure sign that he was sleepy. "Banding together… united around a wish for a better world. I didn't think of it. Before you got here, I was paranoid." He yawned, rolled over. "Could only think of danger, fear. Fuck it, though, you're right. With a miracle in our hands, why avoid utopianism?"

"You're sweet," Jass said.

"No, _you're_ sweet," Anatoli said, grumpily. "We have…"

He trailed off. Jass reached over the edge of the bed to where he lay on the floor and poked him in the arm.

"…Nothing." After another magnificent yawn, Anatoli finished. "To lose but our chains."

Jass smiled. They would turn the world upside down with their wish. Improve life for billions. There were no shortcuts to or in revolutions, she'd learned. But now they had a chance at a miracle.

"Night Anatoli."

She drifted off uneasily, fantasizing about an alternate reality in which she, Anatoli, and Raul were having this sleepover under happier circumstances. Hot cocoa, discussions in the dark about society, politics, life, and love...


End file.
